


Till it hurts, till it's better

by BrainlessGenius



Category: Sanders Sides (Web Series)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Brotherly Love, But he's also a damn good brother, Deceit | Janus Sanders Encourages Self-Care, Deceit | Janus Sanders is a Little Shit, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Gender Dysphoria, Hurt/Comfort, Misgendering, One Shot, Originally Posted on Tumblr, Prompt Fill, Trans Anxiety | Virgil Sanders, Trans Male Anxiety | Virgil Sanders, brotherly anxceit - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-04
Updated: 2021-01-04
Packaged: 2021-03-14 19:27:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,310
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28550844
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BrainlessGenius/pseuds/BrainlessGenius
Summary: Virgil’s sleep-deprived, exhausted, uncomfortable, anxious, and in pain, but he can’t sit around mulling over his demise. Not when his brother will be coming over for the first time in years. It’s a distraction, he supposes. Too bad his brother’s a keen observer.A fill for the prompt "FTM Virgil Angst (hurt/comfort)"
Relationships: Anxiety | Virgil Sanders & Deceit | Janus Sanders
Comments: 1
Kudos: 83





	Till it hurts, till it's better

**Author's Note:**

> Warning/s: Gender dysphoria, accidental misgendering, mentions of misgendering and dysphoria, anxiety, mature language, please please tell me if I forgot something

“Eggs, flour, sugar-- fuck’s sake why are these in different aisles?” Virgil mutters to himself as he carries the grocery basket in one hand, reading off a list held in the other. 

“Salt. Do I still have salt? I think I still have a whole bag back home. Unless that’s sugar…”

Grocery-shopping is taking him longer than he expected. In his head, Virgil had a clear, splitting image of what he was going to do. He imagined himself entering Walmart, breezing through the aisles in a neat beeline, checking-out his items quickly, then speeding home to get some cleaning and cooking done. 

Now, he’s stuck trying to remember if he indeed has any peppercorns left and contemplating what cut of meat to grab. He’s pretty sure he’s visited this one particular aisle three times now, stupidly overlooking the cornstarch at every visit. 

To be absolutely fair, it is seven in the morning, he had just come straight from his night shift, and he was undeniably exhausted. 

He’d also gotten a bit of cleaning done before his shift; sacrificing a few good winks of sleep to pamper up the spare room in his dingy apartment. Unnecessary clutter were either moved to the excruciatingly small attic, placed somewhere else in the unit, or bagged and thrown away.

How many hours has it been since he last slept?

After he grabs the last thing on the list, he shares a few awkward moments with the woman at the check-out counter, thanks her just after she thanks him, then walks out the door. Virgil considers taking the bus for a good few seconds, but decides against it after he takes into account the slight throb in his temple, the dull pain in his back and chest, and the bags of shi--  _ groceries  _ he has in his hands.

So he drops the bags unceremoniously on the pavement, uses one hand to card it through his purple-accented hair and the other to hail a cab. He almost accepts sleep’s tempting invitation the second he’s seated, but something at the back of his mind yells at him to stay vigilant, on-guard, to keep his eyes trained on everything around him and to stop his own hands from fiddling too much. 

“Where to, ma’am?” 

Virgil’s twirling fingers stops its ministrations at the question. It’s such a simple sentence; only three words, three syllables. Yet that one word hit Virgil like a freight train at full speed, making the ache in his upper torso all the more noticeable. He thinks of correcting the driver. It would be such a simple thing to do. He seemed like a nice person; one who would probably apologize profusely after, amend his unintentional fault.

But Virgil never was one to find it easy to talk, and he finds the worse possible outcomes of him pointing it out overpowering the pros. Instead, he chokes out his address to the driver, puts on his earphones, and sits in heavy silence. 

The small incident jumps around in his head, but it’s not like this is the first. It isn’t right to say that he’s grown accustomed to the sting of being misgendered, or that he’s stopped counting how many times it’s happened, but he has. Like all the times before, he swallows the distasteful flavor coating his mouth, evens his breathing, and tries to forget what occurred.

It’s just another, shit-eating day. Besides, someone will be coming over, and he needs to focus on that. There is no time to dwell on such irrelevant things, no matter how relevant he thought of it.

His brother will be arriving in a few hours. He can occupy himself with that.

He leaves the second the cab stops in front of his complex, almost forgetting to pay. Once in his unit, he springs to life. He does not even bother to change out of his work attire nor take a second to relish in shut-eye. He whizzes about, gathering ingredients from his bags and cabinets, grabbing pots, pans, and bowls. Slicing, mixing, seasoning, and cleaning up in between. In the hustle and bustle of sizzling beef, wiped-down counters, and whipped-up batter, he buries the surely impending dysphoria deep down. He thinks if he does enough to keep himself busy, the sinking feeling in his stomach and the bite in his chest will eventually leave.

He thinks, and he hopes.

It’s not much. Steak, potatoes, and a small pie good for two is hardly anything to be proud of. The end result does not even look that appetizing, far from those shiny, delectable goods slapped onto magazines. But he and his sibling have never been picky, often content with a can of soup and some beans. Knowing him, he’d probably just tease Virgil for putting this much effort, mussing up his hair and poking fun at the home-cooked meal.

It’s been years. A lot has changed since then. He doesn’t know until when he can keep denying just how nervous he actually was for this day. He kept telling himself that his worries were foolish, overrated. It’s not like the sassy bitch didn’t know. They’ve kept up all this time, and he’d called him Virgil the very second he came out to him. He remembers how he cried over the phone, and how his brother let him, only to snicker at him after for being the most dramatic man he’s ever met followed by a very nonchalantly said “I love you, you bastard” thrown at Virgil.

But all of that had happened through calls and texts, rarely accompanied by videos or images. This would be the first time they’d be seeing in person, and quite frankly he is scared out of his shit. He manages to quickly put on different clothes and perfume once the pie is set aside and all that needs to be cleaned is finished. 

A knock sounds shortly after. Virgil looks through the peephole, breath hitching at the first sight of his brother he’s had in a long time, takes a deep breath right behind the door, and opens it.

He’s greeted by a slightly taller, lean man, coat slung on his forearm and shoulder bag pressed against his side, dressed in a black turtleneck and gray pants. He looks like a proper English professor, only that all grammar and conversational rules get thrown out the window once you actually get to know him.

“Well, if it isn’t Virgil the gerbil.”

“Wonderful way to greet someone you haven’t seen in 3 years, Jan.”

“I mean, you burrow into your blankets, kinda territorial, you’re pretty small--”

“I’m shorter by just two inches--”

“Still counts as small, Virge.”

“Oh for fuck’s sake, just get in would ‘ya?”

Janus smiles widely, eyes crinkling and soft laughs resounding as he steps inside. He hangs his yellow-accented, black coat on a rack by the door, still chuckling from Virgil’s endearing annoyance. Nothing has changed much about Janus. His hair has grown out a bit longer and his taste for clothing has significantly improved, he notes; but the familiar pattern of vitiligo dotting half of his face is still very much the same, his smile familiar, and his posture still impeccable as ever.

The mundanity of his presence, of the moment, is almost enough to melt all the worries in Virgil’s mind away.

Janus continues talking as he walks forward into the living room, past Virgil. “You know, if you didn’t slouch so much, maybe you’d be as tall as me.” He walks around the room a bit, running his fingers over a few trinkets on a shelf.

“Maybe you can try slouching instead so we’d still be at par.” Virgil follows just behind him, tailing along as his brother finds his feet in the dining area, staring at the food waiting on the table.

“And sacrifice my two-inch advantage over you? No thanks.” Janus leans over the table, closing his eyes and taking a long whiff of the simple meal set up on it. He always was a dramatic bitch, and Virgil snorts at his hungry stare once he reopens his eyes.

“Hungry, I’m guessing?” 

Janus grabs a single potato slice and takes a bite out of it, eyes closing once again to savor its flavor. “ _ Starving. _ ” The remaining half of the slice vanishes into his mouth soon after, and Virgil can only shake his head at him.

“I mean, it is a bit past lunchtime and I’m pretty hungry too. So, uh, what are we waiting for?” Virgil asks, arms crossed and standing in proximity to both Jan and the table. 

Janus looks at him seriously for a slightly long stretch of silence, long enough to get Virgil’s nerves firing back up slightly. Then, without any warning, Jan closes the space between them and envelops Virgil in a big, tight hug.

Virgil rigidly reciprocates, but eventually relaxes into the embrace, arms wrapping around each other’s shoulders and chest. 

“I missed you like hell, V,” Janus says breathlessly, chin still awkwardly propped on Virgil’s shoulder. 

“Same here, Jan. Been a long fuckin’ while.”

They sway a bit, squeezing tighter, corners of their mouths tugging upwards, before pulling away after a few good seconds.

But Virgil underestimates the strength of Janus’ hug, and the wince that glazes his face after they pull away is hard to deny. Janus was always a keen observer, and right now Virgil realizes that the muted sting on his chest earlier had grown into an obvious ache.

“Virge? You good?” Janus looks him up and down with furrowed brows, hands still on either side of Virgil’s arms. Virgil struggles to think of an answer, only staring at Janus with a gaping mouth resembling those fishes at the market, trying to think of a plausible response.

It takes a while, but a slight shift of his torso accompanied by a biting discomfort finally tells Virgil his mistake. How could he have overlooked it? How could he have forgotten? He’s been awake for almost 24 hours, every minute spent preoccupied with preparing for Jan’s visit and work.

How long has it been since he last took it off?

“Hey, what’s wrong? Are you hurt or something?” 

The concern in Janus’ features stays plastered on while Virgil feels the slightest bit ashamed, guilty, anxious, and stupid for forgetting to do such a basic thing. Even more so when he realizes that a small part of him might have actually chosen to do so, too caught up in the euphoria of a flatter chest and the unrelenting need to “look the part.”

Janus’ features grow soft, but still retain some of its sharpness, hands never leaving Virgil’s arms.

“V, you have to tell me what’s wrong.”

Virgil stammers, his body and his anxiety battling over his vocal cords, one encouraging him to speak and do what he must, the other telling him to hide the sheer ridiculousness of the situation. The lack of an answer makes Janus’ frown fall deeper. Suddenly, his hands are off Virgil’s arms and cross in front of his chest, his upper teeth come to bite at his lower lip, and his eyebrow raises in concentration.

“You winced after I hugged you. Is it your shoulders? Your back? Your chest?”

Virgil was never a good actor, evident by how his breath hitches once Janus asks the last question. Janus’ eyes widen and his hand goes to fiddle with the strap of his shoulder bag.

“So it’s your che--  _ Virgil _ . When did you last… when did you last take your binder off?” Janus looks him dead in the eyes, cold and serious but laced with all the worry he can hold in his entire body.

As he said, Janus was always a keen observer.

Virgil looks down, avoiding Jan’s face and trying to ignore the pain that has slightly spread to his back. “I… I actually don’t remember.”

Janus huffs and raises both eyebrows. “Jesus, Virge. I’m not an expert on these things but I don’t think that’s good for you? At all?”

“Y-yeah, no, it’s not,” Virgil starts. Janus’ eyes go even wider and his features scrunch up at him. “Listen, I was so busy and I just forgot and honestly it’s just such a stupid thing and god--”

“Shhh.” Janus musses his hair a bit as he shushes him, a gesture he’s brought with him since they were children. “It’s okay. You don’t need to explain,” he starts, removing his hand from Virgil’s hair and settling them on the back of a chair, eyes still on Virgil. “Like I said, this is not my area of expertise, so really, who am I to judge? Still, I just want you  _ safe _ , Virge.” 

The words register in Virgil’s head, sitting comfortably in the middle of all the heavier, foggier thoughts settling in his mind, doing its best to outshine Virgil’s own worries. 

“For now,” Janus adds as he pulls out a dining seat, “go change, do whatever you need to, and take all the time you need, hmm?”

“But--”

“Nuh-uh. Go ahead, V. Not like the food or I are gonna start running off somewhere, are we?” Jan’s eyes stay locked on him, his signature annoying smirk sewn onto his face as he takes a seat in a flourishing motion, smoothing out his top as he goes. 

For a while, Virgil gawks at him, arm hugging his own torso as he stares at Janus’ relaxed but proper form on the seat. He thinks to reopen his mouth and reply, but his own body reminds him of the task at hand, and he scurries over to his room to change. 

He’s still anxious as he gingerly but clumsily takes off his top, taking a very deep breath before proceeding to take the binder off. The released pressure is a relief just as much as it is an insecurity. Alone, Virgil’s worries fester, telling him of how much of a nuisance he is, how much of Janus’ time he’s taking up, how he’s keeping the food waiting, how the bareness feels wrong, and how his brother might be feeling.

It’s unfair to Jan, he thinks, as Virgil takes the time to stretch his shoulders and his back. Janus has never had to deal with routines like these before, never had to call him a different name, different pronouns. He’s had to adjust on almost every aspect of their relationship as siblings.

Yet Virgil never heard a single complaint. 

No bombarding of nonsensical questions from his coworkers, or blatant misgendering by bosses, or weird looks from passersby on the streets. Only acceptance and love; the same love he’d given Virgil even before he came out. Nothing more, nothing less.

The inky claws of dysphoria and anxiety threaten to claim him as he debates whether to wash up a bit, run himself over with a warm, damp cloth, freshen himself up; but the image of his brother’s warm features, patient and understanding, gives him the reassurance he needs.

It was about time he actually took better care of himself.

He definitely feels better afterwards, with the ache finally dying down along with some of the exhaustion. He is still sleep-deprived, of course, but he can do something about that fact later on.

He finds Janus scrolling mindlessly on his phone at the exact same spot he left him. He expects the food to be cold by now, but he’s surprised to see puffs of smoke still rising out of the dishes.

“Hey, uh, hope you don’t mind but I reheated them. Cold steak’s never good, is it?”

Virgil takes his own seat from across Janus, rubbing his hands together at the thought of finally getting a taste of his own cooking. “No, it isn’t. Thanks. I’m surprised you haven’t burned the kitchen down.”

Janus laughs at this, helping himself to a serving of potatoes and beef. “I’m surprised you even managed to whip up something like this. What happened to ‘I live off of instant noodles and chips’?”

“That was college, bitch. I’ve learned a few things, give me some credit.”

They easily slip into light, riveting conversation, as if they were merely continuing one they cut off yesterday. It feels nice having Jan back, even for just a moment. He never thought of his brother as his best friend; in fact, nemesis might have actually suited Jan’s aesthetic better. But right now, as they throw verbal shit at the government in front of the half-decent pie, Virgil thinks about how he never felt safer.

“Thanks, by the way,” Virgil utters while they let the dessert digest after. Janus raises an eyebrow again, a habit he’s grown accustomed to. 

“What for? Reheating food isn’t difficult, Virge--”

“Not that, stupid. I meant for earlier. Thanks for reminding me, and waiting and all that.”

Janus looks at him with slight disbelief as he dabs a tissue at the side of his mouth. “Look at you, thanking me for something I didn’t even need to put an ounce of effort into. That’s basic human decency, Virgil. How shitty of a person would I be if I didn’t show it towards my own goddamn blood relative?”

“ _ Blood relative--  _ who the fuck even says that anymore?”

“I do, and don’t ever thank me for something like that again, got it?” 

A little bit more of the weight lifts off Virgil’s shoulders, one he didn’t even realize was there. He smiles. “Okay. Got it.”

Janus smiles in return, slowly morphing into that smirk Virgil always hated and loved simultaneously while his hand reaches for something in his shoulder bag. “I have something for you.”

It was Virgil’s turn to raise an eyebrow, eyeing the bag from across. “Oh? Better not be another philosophy book. I haven’t even opened up the last one you gave me--”

“And you never will, yeah, yeah, lesson learned. You’re still uncultured as ever.” Janus’ eyes light up as he finally fishes out a black item from his bag. “Here,” he says, as he hands the folded thing over to Virgil.

Virgil looks at it in curiosity, unfolds it, and stares.

It’s a half binder, one in his size. It wasn’t anything special; not cheap, but not as expensive as others out there. He’d read about this specific brand before, its pros and cons, the ins and outs. There is nothing extraordinary about this one, but it’s the gesture that counts, the thought that makes the warmth and overwhelming feeling bloom stronger in him.

“Jan… I--”

“Yeah, it’s not much, I know. Like I said, I haven’t the faintest idea what’s good or not. But I read about how comfortable and soft this particular one was so I thought, why not?”

Virgil says nothing, only folds the binder back into its little packaging, stands, and strides across to give Janus the biggest, tightest hug he can muster, almost knocking Jan’s seat backwards with the speed of his lunging embrace.

“Thanks. You’re the best, you know that, right?” 

Janus chuckles against him, hand coming up to mess up Virgil’s hair once again until his purple strands stick up at odd angles. “Not so bad yourself, V. Though I do thank you for the wonderful validation. It doesn’t feed into my ego  _ at all _ .”

Virgil quickly pulls away to smack him in the arm, an action Janus barely dodged with another shit-eating smirk.

“My god, learn how to take a compliment, would ‘ya?”

Janus snickers. “Never.”

They continue their banter until late into the night, when the throes of exhaustion finally make its claim on both of them as they lay in their separate rooms.

Virgil does not even realize the silence in his mind as he shuts his eyes, the pleasantness of his dreams, nor the refreshing nature of his waking up.

For once in so long, Virgil feels like himself, and he isn’t afraid.

**Author's Note:**

> Hey, hope you're all doing okay. Every little support and kudos is eternally appreciated. Mayhaps y'all can go visit my tumblr [@nerdy-emo-royal-dad](https://nerdy-emo-royal-dad.tumblr.com/)!. Stay safe fams! <3


End file.
